


021 "wedding"

by wheel_pen



Series: Iron Man AU [21]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fish out of Water, My Pepper is different, Pre-Iron Man, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony and Pepper are going to the wedding of Rhodey's sister. Hilarity ensues as they attempt to shop for presents at Target, intimidate the reception DJ, and survive the bouquet toss. "The last time I was invited to an 'adults-only' event, it was a lot different from this!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	021 "wedding"

**Author's Note:**

> 1) My Pepper is very different from canon Pepper. Her personality/origin is very different; to separate her from canon Pepper I've given her a new last name and a different hair color.
> 
> 2) The bad words are censored. That's just how I do things.
> 
> 3) Stories are numbered in the order I wrote them, which isn't necessarily the order in which they occur. At some point I'll post a timeline.
> 
> I wrote this series after the first Iron Man movie came out. It's very AU but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play with these characters.

            Wedding gifts for someone I hardly knew: $758.37

            Replacing torn tuxedo jacket: $200.00

            Getting a recalcitrant DJ to play our favorite song ten times: $10,000

            Spending a perfect evening with Pepper (and other friends): priceless 

 

            Apparently, Rhodey had a sister.

            "I knew you had a sister," I told him, with only a little bit of uncertainty in my tone. "You've mentioned her before." That seemed like a good guess.

            "You probably met her at my wedding," Rhodey prompted, digging into his lunch.

            I looked enviously at his burger and poked at the salad Pepper had assigned me. If I ate enough of it, I _might_ get some fried chicken later. "I remember meeting _Rae's_ sister at your wedding," I reminisced fondly.

            Rhodey rolled his eyes. "You ever wonder _why_ she doesn't like you? Maybe it's because you slept with her sister at our wedding."

            "That's funny, I thought the animosity began when I interrupted your third date drunk off my a-s and puked all over your car," I suggested innocently, forcing myself to eat a cucumber slice. Rhodey indicated I might have a point. "Anyway, _I_ sure wasn't the one who dragged an innocent best man into the coat closet after the rehearsal dinner to have my wicked way with him."

            "You're _hardly_ innocent," he pointed out.

            "Well, I was minding my own business," I clarified. "Very nice girl, though, Rae's sister. Handles things in a very mature way. She even danced with me the next day. What was her name again?"

            "Mae," he told me, and we both couldn't help but grin.

            "Yes You Mae," we chorused juvenilely.

            "G-d, I forgot that," I said, shaking my head. "I think _I_ need a slutty nickname, don't you?"

            "What makes you think you don't already have one?" Rhodey challenged.

            I gave him a look that said he'd have to produce evidence, such as a ladies' room wall, to convince me. "But back to your sister," I returned, spearing a lettuce leaf. "Er, what's _her_ name?"

            "Jenny."

            "Right…" No mental image was being conjured up. But I finally remembered _why_. "I thought she was already married?"

            Rhodey looked slightly uncomfortable. Not in a, 'actually this is her seventh marriage' kind of way, more in a 'actually she _wasn't_ married at all' way. "Well, she had this one boyfriend for a long time," he hedged. "Maybe that's what you're thinking."

            "No, no, I distinctly remember you saying…" I broke off, realizing why my friend might have thought it prudent to tell me his little sister was married and thus unavailable. His guilty look confirmed he remembered his motivation as well. "Dude, she was, like, sixteen at your wedding, wasn't she?" I needled.

            "Nineteen," he corrected defensively.

            "D—n. Well, that was probably a good idea on your part," I admitted. "Considering I went home with the _third_ bridesmaid _after_ the wedding."

            Rhodey thought back. "Who was that?"

            I shrugged. "Can't remember. All I remember is the lemon-yellow dress with a very unfriendly zipper."

            "So you not only slept with her sister, but also presumably her good friend," Rhodey concluded.

            "Don't forget the time I made you fly out to the Pentagon to help me with a demo. On Valentine's Day," I reminded him helpfully.

            He shook his head. "It wasn't so much the demo at the Pentagon. It was the stripper you sent to _tell_ me about the demo. With interpretative dance. At our apartment. On Valentine's Day."

            "Sheesh. Women."

            "Yeah, go figure."

            I was making decent progress on the salad, I decided, and I summoned Pepper to witness it. "And bring your tub of golden-fried goodness with you," I demanded.

            " _Yes, sir_ ," Pepper replied over the intercom. " _Shall I bring the chicken, too?_ "

            I briefly made eye contact with Rhodey, who smothered a grin in his hand. "Yes, Pepper. I don't even really know what she meant by that," I told Rhodey. "It's not like _fried_ is an adjective I would really associate with—"

            Fortunately Pepper's arrival cut off that comment before Rhodey had to tape my mouth shut. She had indeed brought the desired bucket of fried chicken and held it protectively on her lap as she sat on my desk.

            "Check out the salad, Pepper," I insisted in a cocky tone. "This is what a _man_ does to a salad!"

            "You didn't eat the purple bits," she observed critically.

            "Well, they taste bad."

            I waited in agony for her decision, the scent of grease and salt tormenting my nostrils. I tried very hard not to give in to my urge to beg—not in front of Rhodey. If we'd been alone, considerable begging might have occurred.

            "Hmm, alright," Pepper decided, looking into the bucket.

            "Yes!"

            "You can have breast or thigh," she offered.

            G-d, I _live_ for these moments. "Thank you, Pepper. But what about lunch?" Rhodey groaned heartily. "Oh come on, it had to happen," I insisted, taking the chicken piece I was given (white meat, I noted). "You can't just leave a setup like that alone. It's un-American."

            "But what happened to the wings?" Rhodey replied, a bit helplessly. "I mean, she _could_ have said 'wings,' right?"

            "There aren't any more wings left," Pepper corrected, offering him the bucket.

            "Pepper ate all the wings, didn't you, Pepper?" I teased. "Pepper _likes_ eating the wings of things. She thinks it will make her fly."

            Pepper frowned at me, a bit defensive. "That was only a hypothesis. I didn't actually _try_ it."

            " _Anyway_ ," Rhodey interrupted, no doubt thoroughly disturbed, "both of you are invited to Jenny's wedding, as my friends."

            "That sounds fun, don't you think, Pep?" I prompted, poking her leg. "I'll buy you a new dress."

            "I've never been to a wedding before," she admitted thoughtfully. "I'll have to do some research. When is this event occurring?"

            "Two months."

            "Sign us up," I told Rhodey.

            Some people might have found it odd that I liked weddings. It was, after all, a ceremony removing one woman from the market, unless of course she decided to have an affair. But it was also an occasion when a lot of _other_ women realized they were still _on_ the market, and had no prospects for getting off it, and might have been nearing their sell-by date. Then they decided they at least wanted to have one meaningless fling before things started to get soft and rotten, and there I was. Not that I looked specifically for desperate women, of course, because I could have had my pick of the lot. But sometimes it was nice to not have to work so much.

            Plus, throw in the booze, food, and dancing, and a big weekend wedding could have been a very good time indeed.

 

            "Apparently, it's customary to buy a _wedding present_ to give to the bride and groom," Pepper reported one day.

            "Really? That's shocking," I replied flatly. "What happened to the good old days, when the bride would become her mother-in-law's slave for seven years out of gratitude for the marriage?"

            Pepper frowned and began to sort through the wedding etiquette books arrayed on the couch (you could image the field day the newspapers had when she was spotted buying _those_ ). "I don't recall anything about that, sir."

            "Never mind," I deferred, flipping aimlessly through the eight million TV channels I received (and still nothing good on). "What should we get? It better be something nice. I don't want them to think I'm just a freeloader."

            She pulled out a sheaf of papers. "I printed out Ms. Rhodes's wedding registry from Target. It's recommended guests choose something from this list the couple assembled, if they don't know the couple well."

            " _Target?_ " I repeated in disbelief, snatching the pages from her. "Are you sure this is the right couple? Shouldn't they be registered at, I don't know, Williams Sonoma? At least Crate & Barrel."

            "I understand from Major Rhodes that Ms. Rhodes is a hairstylist, and the prospective groom is the night manager of a grocery store," Pepper informed me. "So I believe they're in the proper income bracket to shop at Target."

            "Wow, look at all the crazy stuff on this list," I remarked. "Pepper, I don't think _we_ have much of this stuff. We don't have a, um, a sewing machine, or a sandwich and waffle maker, or—hey! A deep fryer! We don't have a deep fryer, Pepper."

            She gave me a look. "I don't think we _need_ a deep fryer, sir."

            "We have a cotton candy maker," I pointed out ruthlessly. "I think we should get a deep fryer."

            "What would you deep fry?" she asked, equally sharp. "Salad?"

            "Uh, _Twinkies_ ," I replied, as though it should be obvious. "And candy bars. And, like, meat." She seemed unconvinced. "Wow, it's only fifty bucks. We could get one for every room in the house. We could get one for the _car_!"

            " 'Brilliant billionaire weapons designer Tony Stark horribly disfigured in deep fryer-related car accident,' " Pepper predicted dryly.

            "Okay, maybe not one for the car," I agreed. "But we're _definitely_ getting one." I continued to peruse the list, which was several pages long. "What's a _steambrush_ for?"

            "It's for steaming wrinkles out of clothing, instead of ironing."

            "Oh." Never done that, myself. "A slow cooker? We don't have one of those," I reminded her. "Unless we count _you_ , of course… 'Nordicware Bacon/Meat Tray.' What, is that for Vikings to display their hunting kills? Oh, look at this, a _salad spinner_. What's _that_ for?"

            Pepper leaned over my shoulder, peering at the grainy picture on the paper. "I don't know," she admitted. "Why would a salad need to be spun?"

            "Maybe it's so you can mix all the salad parts and dressing together without making a mess," I theorized. "Hmm, we don't have a _coffee press_. Or a _trivet_. At least that I know of. Or a _stainless steel gravy server_."

            "We have an ice cream scoop," Pepper tried, pointing to an item on the list. "We have several of those."

            "Wow, look at all the towels they have listed," I marveled.

            "We have towels," Pepper assured me.

            "Yes, but do we have towels in Everglade Mist? Marsala Red? Picasso Blue?"

            "Polished Chrome?" she added with a confused look. "Is the towel shiny?"

            "Um… Oh, that's not a towel, that's a toilet paper holder," I corrected her. Granted, there was no picture, just the item name and color in tiny print. "Wow, you have to _buy_ toilet paper holders? I thought they just _came_ in bathrooms. Ooh, now here's something awesome—a home theater system with an iPod dock. I have one of those."

            "This one is only two hundred dollars," Pepper noted. "That's quite a bit cheaper than the home theater systems _here_ cost."

            I frowned. "Yeah, that's weird… Hey, a _fabric shaver_! What the h—l does _that_ do?"

            "Um…" Pepper puzzled over the picture. "I don't know. It looks kind of like an iron. Oh, I know, I saw on TV a _glove_ that you rub over your legs and it pulls the hairs out. Maybe it's something like that."

            I stared at her. "Well you better find out, because I'm not giving Rhodey's sister some kind of leg-waxing kit as a wedding present," I insisted.

            "That would be a little strange," Pepper agreed.

            I shuffled the pages of the list looking for any other items of interest. "What does 'available in store' mean?"

            "Well, I was looking at the Target website," Pepper began, "and some things you can order online, but some things you can only get by going to the store."

            "What c—p!" I declared hotly. "Who wants to go to a _store_? I've never been inside a Target in my entire life."

            "You were arrested in a Target once," Pepper corrected.

            I tried to think back. A hazy memory began to form. Then I grinned. "Oh yeah. Man, that was back when I was a teenager. How did you know about that?"

            "Oh, I've done extensive background research on you," Pepper replied, with a sinister, all-knowing air.

            "Okay then." I gazed at the list thoughtfully. "Well, I'm bored. Let's go to Target."

            "I thought you didn't _want_ to go to the store," Pepper frowned.

            "Well, it looks like most of the really cool stuff you can't buy online, which is ridiculous, by the way," I judged. "I mean, look at this—a 'mndln slicer.' What _is_ that? It's like Hebrew or something, you just have to _know_ the right vowels to use. And there's no picture, and no link you could click either. I want to buy that. In fact, I want to buy one for us, too. So we have to go to the store." Pepper looked dubious. "Come on, it'll be fun. I know! You can wear that pink cocktail dress with the poofy skirt and be my little oppressed '50's housewife." Pepper loved getting dressed up, so I thought that might be enough to tempt her.

            She looked me over, assessing my stained t-shirt and torn jeans. "And would _you_ be my grungy mid-'90's garage band musician?"

            I tried to keep a straight face but just couldn't. "Are you saying I should change?"

            "And take a shower," she nodded. Well, I could always count on Pepper for honesty.

            "Okay, I'll run through the shower, and you get dressed up."

            Fifteen minutes later I was in my room, clean but undecided in terms of fashion, when Pepper flounced in wearing her cotton-candy-pink dress with the wide neck and poofy skirt. I can't describe it any better than that, but just imagine what June Cleaver would've worn to a nice dinner (hey, I watched TV Land). Plus, killer heels, also pink. And pearls. And slightly poofy hair. And—"The gloves are _awesome_ , Pepper! Where did you find them?"

            "They came from the vintage store, with the dress," she reported. "And, I put extra crinoline under the skirt to make it even poofier."

            "Good call." I stood in front of my closet, clad only in boxers, trying to decide on my own attire. "I wonder if I still have those really huge jeans," I mused. "I could pull them halfway down my a-s, put on a wifebeater and a backwards baseball cap, and be some kinda white-trash gang member."

            "Appealing," Pepper opined, though I thought there might be some sarcasm there, "but dissonant."

            "Well, um…" Suddenly I spotted my black leather jacket. "Perfect. Got it!" I declared. "Jeans, black t-shirt, black leather jacket, sunglasses. I'll be The Wild One. We'll take the motorcycle."

            "Where would we put the presents?" Pepper asked sensibly, though I knew how attached she was to the motorcycle.

            I deflated momentarily, my dreams of emulating Marlon Brando crushed. Then I snapped my fingers as inspiration struck again. "Same outfit. You'll be my '50's debutante/proto-housewife, and I'll be a greaser. We'll take the Chevy."

            Yes, I _did_ have an authentic '57 Chevy. And it _was_ hot rod red. Actually it belonged to my dad first, but I'd kept it in pristine condition. Personally I preferred smaller, faster cars, but the Chevy was nice when you needed a little more room, especially in the backseat.

            Welcome to the world of Tony Stark, folks. Beautiful women. Fast cars. Plentiful cash. Dressing up like characters from _Grease_ to go shopping for wedding presents at Target. It was really the _variety_ of it all that I liked best. 

            Twenty minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of the nearest Target, delayed only by a Google Maps search to find it and negotiations over when to have the top of the car down—a delicate balance between the coolness factor of a convertible and the stability of Pepper's hairdo.

            "Pepper, you can push the cart," I allowed generously. "But you might have to toss your gloves later, because who knows what the h—l kind of skeevy people shop here normally."

            She wasn't really listening to my warnings. "Oh look, they have _food_!"

            "Wow. Pizza, ice cream, pretzels, popcorn… It's just like a roller coaster park," I agreed in awe. Then I shook myself free of the lure of cheap and greasy food. "Come on, Pepper, we have to stay _focused_ ," I instructed. "We'll get some food on the way out."

            And thus began our wanderings at Target. We started out by looking for specific items from the registry, but that lasted for all of two minutes before becoming dull. Instead we relied upon browsing and Pepper's memory to help us choose things.

            "Yeah, here's my deep fryer. Score!" I put two of the bulky boxes in the cart.

            "Look!" Pepper exclaimed. "The _Breakfast Station_. It makes coffee, toasts a bagel, and fries eggs all at once!"

            "Oh, we _need_ one of those," I agreed, tossing it in. In fact, I discovered that we _needed_ most of the kitchen gadgets section. But then again, so did the prospective bride and groom, apparently.

            "Cookie scoop?"

            "Yes."

            "Cheese grater?"

            "Yes."

            "Potato scrubber? Corn-on-the-cob holder? Cherry pitter? Ooh, a whisky thing where the handle looks like an egg but with eyes and feet! That's _sick_. It's supposed to be used to beat its brethren? I'm getting one. Two."

            "Yes, yes, yes, and yes," Pepper confirmed when I had finished my comment. By that point I wasn't sure if she was telling me these items were on the registry or merely agreeing that we needed to have the experience of purchasing them. Either way was fine with me.

            "Hey! The lemon, lime, and orange squeezers are actually _the same thing_ ," I pointed out in indignation, grabbing several of each to examine.

            "No, they aren't," Pepper countered. "They're different colors. The orange squeezer is orange, and… um…"

            "Lemons are yellow and limes are green," I reminded her. "And functionally, these devices are all the same. What a rip-off!" Nonetheless I had tossed seven or eight into the cart.

            "We don't have any good china," Pepper commented a few minutes later as we stood in the dish section, which was quite a bit more boring than the gadget area. And more breakable.

            "What do we need good china for?" Everywhere I turned I was surrounded by plates on display, plates which all appeared to be exactly the same.

            "We could use it for a dinner party," Pepper replied, carefully examining the labels under each plate. "Do you see one called Harvest Wheat?"

            "We don't _have_ dinner parties," I reminded her. "And what does Harvest Wheat look like?"

            "It's sort of off-white with a gold circle," Pepper described. Which encompassed roughly eighty percent of the plates around me. "We don't have dinner parties because we don't have good china."

            I rolled my eyes. "We don't have dinner parties because they're _boring_ ," I shot back. "Unless of course I get drunk and make an a-s of myself, which is better to do in someone _else's_ home where I can just leave. Hey, is that Harvest Wheat down there?" Pepper bent to peer at a plate on a lower shelf, which, given the amount of crinoline supporting her skirt, allowed me to peer at a lot more leg.

            "That was Golden Field," she determined, straightening back up.

            "My mistake. Anyway, I would probably get mad at some point and _break_ the good china," I continued, not really keeping up my share of the dinnerware search. They were just all so… generic, I felt kind of dirty.

            "This is pretty, don't you think?" Pepper asked, holding up a dark blue square plate. The high gloss finish nearly blinded me as she turned it in the light.

            "If you want good china we'll go to, um, Tiffany's, maybe," I promised, eager to move on to a more interesting section. "I'm sure they make china. Or they can tell us who does." I looked to my left and started grabbing boxes from the first stack I saw. "Here. This is an eight-place dinner set. We'll get a couple of these." I slid them onto the rack at the bottom of the cart.

            "That's _not_ Harvest Wheat," Pepper observed with a frown.

            "No, you're right, it's… Honey Sheaf," I replied, gagging on the name. "But it's beige with a golden circle. And I'm getting about thirty-seven plates, fifty-two bowls, and"—another box—"a dozen wineglasses, so they can just suck it up."

            "Maybe we should drink more wine," was Pepper's thoughtful response.

            "I have a wine cellar." It came with the house. "Help yourself."

            "I already have." Note to self: check the wine cellar when we got home.

            We steered the cart away from the impenetrable dignity of the dish aisle and back onto the main drag. There weren't too many other shoppers out that night, thank goodness, though we got suitably strange looks from those we passed. Pepper more than me, ironically—men's fashion had changed very little in fifty or so years.

            Click-click-click went Pepper's heels on the tile floor. "We should get them a card to go with our present," she decided, stopping by the racks of greeting cards.

            "Cards are boring," I declared impatiently. "Let's go look at the electronics." I tried to push the cart away from Pepper to encourage her migration but ended up only awkwardly tripping over it. "Wow, this thing is heavy! You want me to push it?" And some doubted my chivalrous nature.

            Pepper gave me an odd look and rocked the cart back and forth easily. "Perhaps it was stuck," she allowed. "What do you think of this card?"

            "Flowers _and_ a poem? Way too sentimental," I judged. She handed me another card. "Neon orange and zebra stripes aren't quite tasteful _enough_."

            "Here's one with sand on it."

            I handed it back after a quick glance. "Sand is okay. But the seashells are over the top. Can't you find one with, I don't know, a vaguely manly tree or something?"

            "Manly tree, manly tree," Pepper murmured to herself, looking over the cards.

            Resigned to my fate I grabbed another card at random, opened it, laughed, and tossed it into the cart. Then I picked up the one next to it, laughed, and tossed it in the cart with the first. A moment later a pile of cards were slipping and sliding between the boxes in the cart.

            "Yo, Pep!" I commanded. "Find me all the cards with old people in their underwear or talking about sex. I'm going to send them to Obadiah."

            "Here's a card with shiny golden leaves," she responded, flashing the cover at me. "I don't see any manly trees."

            "Good enough," I shrugged, pitching another handful of cards into the cart. _Someone_ was going to find his mailbox stuffed in the morning. "Now let's go to electronics."

            We got waylaid by the candy aisles—plural!—first. I didn't go grocery shopping, of course. That was what I had Pepper for. So it had been many years since I had stood in the middle of an aisle surrounded by towering displays of candy, the heady sugary scent of mixed fruit flavors and chocolate nearly overpowering me.

            "Wow," I breathed.

            "Wow," agreed Pepper.

            Then we started cramming the candy into the cart as fast as we could. I didn't even look at it, just grabbed one bag from each pile or rack and wedged it into our overstuffed cart.

            "We are totally pigging out when we get home," I announced gleefully. J---s, you would've thought we'd never even _seen_ candy before. Sorry, I couldn't explain it. It was just a frenzy, like with sharks.

            We were both a little out of breath when we finally emerged from the sugar-gathering orgy. "On to electronics!" I insisted again, gearing up for another erotic encounter, this time of the digital kind. Hey, I went to MIT; beneath this well-muscled chest beat the heart of a nerd.

            "Wow, packaging has really gotten out of control these days," I remarked a moment later as we stood in front of a large plastic box containing an iPod. "We may have to get a second cart."

            "You already have an iPod," Pepper replied.

            "Oh yeah," I remembered. "Do _you_ want an iPod?"

            "No."

            "Hmm." But it was so beautiful, gleaming inside its plastic prison, a computer hard drive in the palm of your hand. "I'll get another one anyway." I reached for the box.

            "Can I help you, sir?" A man wearing red and khaki appeared out of nowhere.

            "No," I told him decisively, picking up the box. Or rather, _trying_ to, as it seemed to be bolted to the shelf. "What the h—l? How do you get at this thing?"

            "Maybe it's just stuck," Pepper suggested, moving in to help.

            "Excuse me, _sir_ ," the man, or perhaps pimply post-adolescent was more accurate, interrupted with a trace of alarm. "If you wish to purchase an iPod—"

            Ooh, too late. Pepper, who tended to ignore people unless I introduced them to her, yanked on the plastic box and handily wrenched it free from the metal shelf. "It was just stuck," she confirmed, balancing it atop a bag of Laffy Taffy in the cart.

            The salesguy and I stared. "Hey, um, you can't do that," he finally sputtered.

            "Look, dude," I advised him, "if you don't want people grabbing the display models, you gotta stick them down better. I mean, look at her—not like she's Xena, Warrior Princess, or something." Pepper blinked at us innocently from under her mini bouffant.

            Apparently Pepper had set off some kind of alarm, because an older managerial type swooped in on us next. "Is there a problem here?" he asked with forced politeness, eyeing the box in the cart.

            "Yeah, I wanna buy another iPod, but you've only got this one out," I explained, patting the box. It wobbled from its precarious perch and was caught by Pepper.

            "Of course, sir," the manager replied officiously. This was more like what I was used to. "If you wish to purchase an iPod, or many of our other electronics, we will happily give you a tag to present to the cashier. Then an associate can bring the item directly to you as you leave."

            "Well, that seems fair," I decided. "The cart's full anyway. You can put that back on the shelf, Pep." She did so. "Tags, huh?" I continued to the manager. "Well, gimme a couple of those eighty gig iPods. Black, I guess." The manager pulled a couple slips of paper from a pocket that hung on the shelf in front of the entombed iPod and handed them to me. "Ohhh, they're right _there_ ," I realized, not the least embarrassed. "You guys should put up a sign or something."

            "That's a very good suggestion, sir," the manager told me in a placating way. I heard a lot of _that_ every day, that was for sure. "Perhaps Brandon could assist you with anything else you need?"

            Brandon appeared to be our dubiously-authoritative man-child with advanced powers of apparition. "Brandon, huh? Alright, cool. Pepper, this is Brandon."

            "Hello, Mr. Brandon," she said politely, shaking his no-doubt moist hand (good thing she was wearing gloves). "It's very nice to meet you."

            I broke through their physical contact and turned back to the shelves of electronics. "Well, Brandon, let's see what we've got here. Hmm, how about a digital camera? No, that one there. Does it come in any other colors? Okay, I'll take three."

            "The home theater system with the iPod dock," Pepper reminded me, holding out the printed registry pages.

            "Oh yeah. We want this thing here," I informed Brandon. "And any other electronics they have listed. There was a portable CD player, right?"

            "Yes. And an electric toothbrush."

            I rolled my eyes. "Pepper, a _toothbrush_ is not gonna be in the electronics department. You should've gotten that when we were in the, uh, toothbrush section." I looked at our assistant thoughtfully. "Brandon, why don't you run back and grab the electric toothbrush, and we'll stay here. Go on. I've got the hang of the little tags." Brandon seemed reluctant to abandon us, which was admirable, but we really needed the team to multitask here. "Okay, Pep, what else do we want here?"

            "I think we have all this stuff," she tried to tell me.

            "No, we don't," I scoffed. "Ooh, look, noise-cancelling headphones. I need some of those."

            "You have some already."

            "Well, I can have a pair at the office now."

            "You have a pair at the—"

            "A mini camcorder!" I interrupted. "Pretty sure we don't have one of _those_. Now we can take our own paparazzi videos. I'll get one in each color. Hmm, I can always use more external hard drives… Digital photo frame? That's cool…" Suddenly I paused in front of a grand object. "Look, Pepper!"

            "It's a pink television set," she observed without excitement.

            "It's a TV _and_ a DVD player," I corrected. "With fake golden scrollwork and plastic turrets on the corners." I grabbed a tag. "Ellie will _love_ this."

            Pepper frowned at me. "Mrs. Rhodes said she didn't want Ellie to have a TV in her bedroom."

            "Oh please. Like it would warp her for life," I snorted. " _I_ had a TV in my bedroom when I was a kid and I turned out fine." Pepper could raise no objection to _that_.

            "Let's get some emergency radios," she decided instead. "We can get one for every floor in the house."

            I sighed. "Practical, Pepper. But not very cool." I looked around, not seeing anything else I wanted or any sign of Brandon bearing the toothbrush. "Anything else we should get?"

            "Well, the cart's full," she pointed out, tucking the tags in between two boxes. "So I guess that means we're done."

            We headed off to the cashiers, who fortunately were not very busy. I _hated_ standing in line. Pepper began placing our items on the conveyor belt while I flipped through the magazine rack.

            "We have these little tags for electronics," she was explaining to the bemused clerk. "And some of these things are from the Rhodes-Jackson registry. And Mr. Brandon is supposed to bring us a toothbrush."

            "You want a drink, Pep?" I asked, sliding open the mini-fridge beside the magazines. She indicated yes, so I grabbed a couple Cokes and set hers on the counter. Then I twisted the lid off mine and went back to the tabloids.

            "I don't think you're supposed to do that," Pepper chided me.

            "I'm gonna pay for it," I assured her. Some people could be so anal. "Hey, look at this!" I flipped the tabloid open to one of the later pages and held it out to her. "That picture of me is three months old!" I complained. "They're just rerunning old stuff with new, made-up stories."

            "Perhaps you'll do something to generate fresh gossip soon, sir," Pepper soothed.

            "Uh, did you want this toothbrush?" said an almost squeaky voice behind me.

            "Hey, thanks, Brandon, way to come through in a clutch," I praised him, adding the box to the pile. "Listen, if you can fetch all our electronic goodies without making me wait too long there's a couple C-notes in it for you."

            "Um, I'm not allowed to accept tips, sir," Brandon told me, with great reluctance. "It's company policy."

            I stared at him. "No tips? What is this, some kind of Communist state? That would explain all the red." I shook my head sadly. "Well, if you're not allowed to have a carrot, you'll have to get the stick." He didn't seem to get my clever metaphor. "That means, get me the electronics from the back before I get you a-s fired."

            "Yes, sir!"

            "Did you want carrots?" Pepper asked with concern. Speaking of not getting metaphors. "I didn't see any fresh produce. But they _do_ have stuffed pretzels, remember!"

            "Never mind," I told her, looking around for something else to occupy me while the mountain of goods rolled through the scanner. The girl at the next register, I noted, was quite far from bad-looking, and rather obviously trying to stare at me without _looking_ like she was staring at me. "Hi. How's it going?"

            "Fine, thanks," she giggled, glancing over her shoulder at the next checkout girl, who giggled back.

            I leaned on the partition near her register. "So what's your name? Sha-nan-non?" I read off her name tag, with sudden confusion. "Am I seeing double? I haven't even been drinking."

            "No, it's really Shanannon," she assured me, blushing in a provincial but not unattractive way. "My parents wanted it to be unique."

            "That's… awe-so-some," I replied charmingly. "Tell me I'm the first to make that joke."

            Just as Shanannon and I got into some semblance of a conversation, Brandon came puffing back in with a cart full of iPods and digital cameras. "Here you go, sir!"

            "Take it to the lady with the credit card, Big B," I instructed, indicating Pepper. "So, Shanannon, when do you get off for di-nin-ner? You let me know if this becomes annoying." From the way she was giggling I thought it would be a while.

            "We're ready, sir," Pepper informed me a few minutes later, waiting primly at one of our two carts, like some kind of special edition '50's Barbie. I bid adieu to my new friends and graciously allowed Brandon to accompany us to the car with a second cart. Since _I_ had no intention of touching the germ-infested handle.

            His fragile mind seemed overwhelmed by the presence of the authentic '57 Chevy in hot rod red. "Car fan, huh?" I surmised as we hoisted the bags into the cavernous trunk.

            "Are you guys, um, famous?" he finally ventured, unable to contain his awe any longer.

            "Dude, we're time travelers," I replied in my most serious voice. "We're taking some of your modern technology back to the '50's with us. I'm gonna make a fortune off this iPod thing."

            "Oh." I guess there wasn't much _anyone_ could say to that, really.

            "Thanks, B," I told him, shutting the trunk. "Take care of that cart for us, okay? Um, peace, man," I added, trying to think of a slang term from the '50's. I really needed to watch _Grease_ again. Then I palmed him the promised tip—hey, weren't the '50's all about fighting Communism?—hopped into the Chevy, and sped off into the night. Like the wind, man. Or something.

            Which would have been a _great_ ending to the scene, except five minutes later Pepper was like, "We didn't get any food!" But I wouldn't go back 'cause we'd already made our awesome exit pursued by a bear (so to speak), so we ran through McDonald's instead. 

            The next morning I crawled downstairs and clawed my way up to the counter, awaiting the coffee I needed to start my day. At this point, it didn't even matter that I _wasn't_ hungover; I was never going to be a morning person.

            "Pepper!" I grumbled after about three seconds. "Where's my coffee?!"

            "It's in here, sir!" came a cheerful voice from the living room.

            "What the h—l is this, a scavenger hunt?" I complained, oozing off the stool and into the next room. I headed straight for the mug of coffee waiting on the—appropriately enough—coffee table and, only after ingesting several milligrams of caffeine, finally looked over at Pepper. The tableau presented to me begged for so many questions it was difficult to know where to begin. I plopped myself down on the floor beside my lovely and delightful assistant, finding it far too early in the morning to contort my brain into a Pepper knot.

            "It's May," I pointed out. "Why are you listening to Christmas music?"

            "I always listen to this kind of music when I wrap presents," she answered sensibly.

            She was indeed wrapping presents. "And you're wrapping the presents for next month's wedding in Christmas paper because…?"

            "I always use this kind of paper to wrap presents," she pointed out, humming the last line from "Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!" (which was, and I'm paraphrasing here, 'Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow').

            I was beginning to see a pattern here. "And I suppose the fireplace is on, even though it's eighty million degrees out, because—"

            "I always have the fireplace on when I'm wrapping presents."

            "Uh-huh." I curled up on the carpet, tempted to go back to sleep amid the red and green packages.

            "Do you want some apple cider?" Pepper offered pleasantly. She _was_ a morning person.

            "Does it have… um… whatever alcohol you put in apple cider?"

            "No."

            "I'll pass." I watched Pepper wrap the deep fryer, the home theater system, and the electric toothbrush with ruthless efficiency. Every angle was sharp enough to cut butter (room-temperature butter, anyway), and every edge was taped down completely. The happy couple would need a blowtorch to get these gifts open. "Are we gonna haul all these to the wedding?" I asked, envisioning the logistical difficulties. At least they would make a h—l of a display.

            "The majority of the etiquette books say the gifts should be sent to the bride ahead of time for the greatest convenience," Pepper reported.

            "So you're gonna _mail_ all these?"

            "I'm going to mail them all inside that large box," she confirmed.

            I craned my neck to look at the corner she indicated. "Pepper, why do we have the most enormous box marked 'tomato paste' known to man?" She opened her mouth. "Scratch that. I know _why_ we have it. Where did you _get_ it?"

            "I got it from Alan Pizza's restaurant," she told me proudly. "They said I could have it this morning."

            I rested my head on my arm wearily. "Pepper, you know his last name's not really 'Pizza,' right? And that he doesn't own the restaurant. He's just the delivery guy." Her expression indicated she thought me guilty of perpetuating a silly, though harmless, myth.

            I think I must have indeed fallen asleep on the floor—it took a while to recover from the roughly three pounds of candy I had ingested the night before—because the next time I opened my eyes Pepper had every single item, down to the lime squeezer (presumably), individually wrapped and was trying to pack them all into the tomato paste box. I saw an opportunity to assist.

            "Shove over, Pepper," I suggested. "I believe I have the superior spatial reasoning skills here."

            "You just knocked over your coffee, sir," she pointed out.

            "Um—oh. Sorry…" So Pepper went to get a dishcloth and whatever other cleaning supplies were necessary to blot the coffee from my off-white rug, while I scooted in front of the box, already planning my strategy.

            Sometime later—after packing and unpacking the box almost completely several times—Pepper watched patiently from the edge of the fireplace as I finally triumphed. "Yeah! Three-dimensional geometry all the way, baby!"

            Pepper looked into the box. "That's how I had them originally, sir." A few years ago, I reflected, she wouldn't have pointed that out to me. That was progress, I supposed.

            "Well, now we _know_ it's right," I replied. "Where's the packing tape?"

            "We have to put the card in first." She pulled out the card with the shiny golden leaves, which had narrowly avoided being stuffed into Obadiah's mailbox last night (that was after about two pounds of candy). "Do you want to sign it?"

            "Mmm… you sign for us both," I decided. "You have better handwriting."

            "Okay. 'From Mr. Stark… and Pepper,' " she recited, inscribing the card.

            I smirked a little bit. "I used to have this great-aunt who always signed her cards 'Mrs. David Sylvestri and Tootles.' Tootles was her Lhasa Apso." Pepper gave me a questioning look. "Her dog. A poofy little dog. She used to draw a little pawprint under its name."

            "Hmm, perhaps I could draw a little pawprint under _my_ name," Pepper mused, though I was fairly certain she was teasing me. "Or maybe a little heart…"

            I snatched the pen from her hand. "Give me that. You're _obviously_ not responsible enough for it."

            Pepper tucked the card into its envelope, then put that into the large box. "Can we take this by the post office on the way to work today, sir?"

            "Do we _have_ to go to work today?" I whined, curling back up on the floor.

            "I think it would be a good idea, sir," she encouraged, taping up the box. "You have a couple of meetings in the afternoon."

            "Fine," I agreed, feeling much put-upon. "But when we get home tonight, we're trying out the new deep fryer!"

 

            "Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark!" J---s, couldn't even walk through the halls of my own company without getting assaulted by someone.

            "Pedro Altobar, PR," Pepper whispered in my ear. I didn't slow my stride across the lobby towards the elevator.

            "Yes, Pedro, how's things in PR?" I asked boredly, allowing Pepper to push the elevator button for me.

            "Pedro Altobar from PR, Mr. Stark," the shorter man introduced quickly, then froze. "Oh, you knew that. Of course."

            "Of course indeed, Pedro," I replied, stepping into the elevator. "I know _everything_." He started to follow Pepper across the threshold. "Hey, did I invite you to ride with us? No, I'm just kidding, come on. You gotta loosen up a little if you work in PR."

            "Er, right, sir," he agreed with uncertainty. He flipped nervously through the file folder he was carrying. "Just wanted to mention, Mr. Stark, that we got this report from last night about, um, you and Pepper—"

            "Ms. Smith," I corrected him sharply.

            "Er, sorry, yes, Ms. Smith," he restated, "or rather, two people who _might_ have been you and Ms. Smith—"

            "Ooh, what were these lookalikes doing?" I prompted eagerly. "Something that's illegal in a few states, I hope."

            "Um, well, not really, I guess," he replied. "They were dressed up in costumes of some sort, and they went on a shopping spree at a local Target. Candy, electronics, and greeting cards, mainly," Pedro listed, reading from a piece of paper. "Oh, also some dishes. Apparently they told one of the Target employees that they were time travelers…" His voice trailed off as he saw the expectant look I was giving him.

            " _And?_ "

            Pedro laughed anxiously. "Um, well, it's really pretty crazy, I guess," he finally concluded sheepishly. "Of course you and P—Ms. Smith would never… Sorry to bother you with it. Sir." He ended with a squeak.

            "You must be new here," I decided. Veteran Stark Industries PR staff knew there was _no_ report about me crazy enough to dismiss outright.

            The elevator stopped below my floor and the peevishly red skull of my old pal Obadiah poked through the doors. "Tony," he said through gritted teeth, " _why_ was my mailbox jammed full of pictures of old women in their underwear this morning?"

            I lifted my hands in a 'backing away' gesture. "Hey, Obie, your personal predilections are really none of my business," I assured him innocently, pressing the 'door close' button. "Have a nice day!" I believe he growled something rude at me before the doors shut between us. "Let me give you some advice, frosh," I told the bemused PR guy. "If I were you, I'd keep an eye on _that_ guy. Crazy. Crazy as a cane toad."

            "That's _very_ crazy," Pepper informed Pedro knowledgeably. We left him on the elevator and headed off to my office.

 

            A few days later Rhodey and I went out to lunch, somewhere I could guzzle a cheeseburger without Pepper giving me smug looks that reminded me I was _only_ eating the delicious slab of ground meat with her blessing.

            "You two have weird issues," Rhodey understated. What was a guy supposed to say to _that_? "Oh, hey, Jenny got the _enormous_ box of wedding gifts you sent. A little over the top, man."

            "Really?" Granted, I hadn't been to a wedding in a while, and usually I just wrote a check.

            "Um, you checked off about half their list," Rhodey informed me, shaking his head. "And you gave them three orange squeezers."

            "Hey, if they were different colors, they were lemon and lime squeezers, too," I corrected.

            "She was a _little_ confused by the card, though," he went on, obviously amused. "Inside it said, 'Sincerest condolences on your recent loss. Signed, Mr. Stark and Pepper.' "

            Ouch. That was gonna take a little while to live down. "I hope you explained that Pepper was my socially-inept cat," I sighed.

            Rhodey snickered. "Don't worry, she thought it was funny. Once I told her you were a little eccentric."

            "I've been called worse," I admitted easily. "Hey, did you see any press about me and Pepper's spree at Target to buy all that stuff?"

            Rhodey groaned. "That was really you? They were passing it off as lookalikes or something. Were you stoned or what?"

            "No!" I replied with offense. "Can't a guy be a little 'eccentric' without being on drugs or having a mental disorder?"

            Rhodey rolled his eyes. "They quoted a guy saying you told him you were a time traveler stealing iPods so you could take over the world."

            "Hey, I didn't _steal_ any iPods," I told him defensively. "Although Pepper _almost_ did. She's really strong, you know? Anyway, I _paid_ for everything!"

            "The time traveler bit?" he prompted.

            "Oh." I finished my cheeseburger. "That was just a ruse to throw people off the scent. Make 'em think I was stoned."

            "Brilliant," he said dryly.

            "Well hey, I am a certified—Shanannon!" I exclaimed suddenly, recognizing a passing waitress.

            Rhodey looked confused. "You're a _what_?"

            "Not _me_ ," I told him, leaning out of the booth. "Hey, Shanannon!"

            Finally the young woman approached us, looking a bit wary. "Can I help you, sir?"

            "You don't recognize me? I'm hurt!" I teased. "I mean, _you_ sure clean up well from Target. You didn't think _I_ walked around all day looking like Marlon Brando, did you?"

            The light of understanding dawned. "Oh, you're _that_ guy!" she remembered cheerfully. "We had, like, TV crews all over us for days after that."

            "Yeah, I heard Brandon opened his piehole to some reporters," I noted with disgust. Money clearly couldn't buy you camaraderie these days.

            "Yeah, he's a total d------d," she opined, rolling her eyes.

            "My thoughts exactly. So, what, you working two jobs to get through school or something?" That would be _college_ , people. I don't go for jailbait.

            "Work release," she admitted, as one might admit spilling something on their clothing.

            I liked this girl. My brief glance at Rhodey showed he was maintaining an admirably polite expression. "Really? What'd you do?" I asked with interest.

            "Well, it's kind of _dumb_ , really," she assured me. "I blew up a car. There was no one in it, though."

            "Awesome," I replied, with great sincerity. "I like blowing s—t up, too!" I handed her one of my business cards. "Call me when you're allowed to leave the state again, we'll go knock over a casino in Vegas."

            "Cool. Thanks!" Shanannon left to get back to work. Rhodey and I waited until she was safely out of earshot before making eye contact.

            "You are a terrible example of a human being," Rhodey judged while I laughed.

            "I know it!" I agreed, with equal parts glee and resignation.

            "No, seriously, man," he insisted, "if there were aliens watching us right now, and they thought _you_ were a typical human—"

            "Dude, we'd be _doomed_!" I predicted.

            "Utterly."

            "Although terribly good-looking and astonishingly intelligent," I added. "Hmm," I continued thoughtfully, "if I could get a _look_ at the alien technology, though, I could probably build a weapon to defeat it." Rhodey rolled his eyes in derision as I laid out my headline. " 'Brilliant billionaire weapons designer Tony Stark saves humanity.' That's catchy."

            Rhodey shook his head. "Keep dreamin', Tony. That's _never_ gonna happen."

 

            A month or so later Pepper and I found ourselves sitting in a very large church beside Rhodey and Rae. Disappointingly, although the crowd was considerable, there were _no_ bridesmaids. And no kids, either, who might have kept me entertained as we waited for the ceremony to begin.

            "G-d, the _last_ time I was invited to an 'adults-only' event, it was a _lot_ different from this," I complained, looking around the heavily swagged and flowered sanctuary.

            "Tony!" Rae hissed under her breath. She glanced over her shoulder at two elderly women sitting in the next pew and smiled nervously at them.

            Pepper and I were decked out in dark blue for the occasion—she had a new dress that was long, slim, and shiny, and a pile of new sapphires for her neck, wrist, and hair that cost me roughly the GDP of a small African nation. Completely worth it, though. I had a classy dark grey Armani, dark blue tie, and sapphire cufflinks. Because actually, we _both_ liked dressing up.

            "Are you cold?" I asked Pepper solicitously, since her dress was sleeveless.

            "No." It was June in San Francisco, indoors, after all. I put my arm around her shoulders anyway.

            "What's your problem?" I prodded, seeing her frown at the program in her hand.

            "This seems to indicate the audience will be singing," she pointed out. "I haven't prepared!"

            Some people might be surprised that I could walk into a church without lightning striking me or some other equally dramatic, judgmental event. Actually my parents took me to church pretty regularly as a kid. I even sang in the choir! How's _that_ for an irreconcilable image? But once I got to be a teenager I preferred to spend my time down in the basement workshop whenever I could. Obviously certain messages did not sink in. Still, I had a decent familiarity with the way the whole thing worked.

            "We're going to be singing a couple of hymns," I told Pepper. "They come from this book here. Just sing quietly, or not at all." Pepper's musical talents, while personally entertaining, were not exactly fit for mass consumption. 

            "I just didn't realize there was audience participation," she commented with some discomfort. "When did you say there would be food?"

            I kissed her temple—you had to love Pepper's single-mindedness. "Two or three hours until the food, I think," I predicted. "Well, there might be snacks at the cocktail reception."

            "Is this your first time at a wedding, Pepper?" Rae asked cheerfully.

            "Yes."

            "I think you'll like it," the other woman forecasted. "It's going to be very romantic!" I tactfully ignored Rae's comment, which I found difficult to hear as anything but a jibe-slash-hint. Being a bit later in the timeline of association between Pepper and me, Rae had passed through such delightful stages as assuming Pepper and I were already A Couple, trying to set Pepper up with other people, and despising me for not _letting_ Pepper be set up with other people. Now we were apparently in a phase where Rae felt we were both secretly in love with each other but simply needed to overcome some kind of obstacle in order to truly become A Couple. Functionally, this meant I found it very difficult to avoid rolling my eyes whenever Rae spoke. Her latest theory was both head-smackingly obvious and yet somehow far too simplistic to adequately explain what went on between me and Pepper. And, more importantly—it was really none of her d—n business. Why Rae felt she had to intervene at all was beyond me.

            But anyway. "I've been reading a number of romantic novels in preparation," Pepper said thoughtfully. She glanced around the church with uncertainty. "But most of the weddings in them are much smaller. And they take place in the dead of night over someone's grave." Both Rae and Rhodey turned to look at her.

            "You know, I've tried to explain this a couple times," I began casually, "but maybe she won't believe it until she hears it from someone else. So Rhodey, would _you_ like to point out that your sister is unlikely to emulate characters from vampire erotic fiction?"

            Rhodey _did_ open his mouth, though whether to agree with me or chastise me we'll never know. "Tony!" Rae muttered again, no doubt seeing little gain in leaving the kids behind if she had to babysit _me_ instead.

            "Sometimes there's werewolves, too," Pepper added hopefully. "Or at least blood sacrifice."

            "You may get grape juice, if they do Communion," I offered instead. She seemed interested.

            Overall Pepper seemed fascinated by the wedding ritual and quick to respond to my cues about standing and sitting. Mostly she stared at the proceedings with an intensity that would surely have alarmed anyone who glanced her way. But she kept her hand on my leg whenever possible, so I was satisfied.

            After just long enough that I was starting to get antsy, the ceremony ended. This was followed by a certain amount of milling around and general confusion before we were shuttled off to the reception hall and the fun could really begin.

            I was impressed by the selection at the open bar. Pepper was impressed by the four-tiered, sugar-flower-draped cake and practically ecstatic over the candy bar, which was kind of like a salad bar but with bowls of candy instead of vegetables. Her expression seemed to indicate this was an image from one of her most vivid dreams.

            "Now listen up," I told her strictly as we waited in line for this _new_ orgy of sugar (we'd been having a lot of those lately). "Here's how this works. You're gonna get a container of some kind when we get up there, and you're gonna fill it with candy." Pepper nodded eagerly; this was well-understood. "But you are _not_ to fill anything _else_ with candy, like your purse, my pockets, or your mouth, understand?" She seemed more sullen about these instructions. "I catch you going crazy, you're gonna regret it."

            We got through the speeches well enough, the innumerable special dances, the giving of centerpieces to those couples who had achieved the most years of legal cohabitation in a row. I felt as though either wedding receptions were getting more elaborate or I was losing my tolerance for them. It could well have been the latter, because normally by this point in the proceedings I would have already stepped out once with an attractive and slightly defensive young woman, and been well on my way towards anticipating the night ahead with either her or a _new_ acquaintance. I could have done that here, too, I supposed. There was no shortage of attractive women, many of whom were noting my presence as I noted theirs. Pepper could have slipped quietly into the background, as she had at so many other social functions, and taken a cab home later while a guest and I occupied my car. She didn't seem the least bit uncomfortable with this arrangement.

            But then again, it _was_ Pepper's first wedding reception, and Rae and Rhodey were already keeping an eye on me to make sure I didn't, I don't know, set myself on fire to draw attention. Besides, I didn't want to do anything that would embarrass my friend, like hit on every one of his female cousins.

            Plus, I had the very important task of making sure no one hit on _Pepper_. A cheesy pick-up line at an industry schmoozefest was one thing; but I'd heard plenty of sad tales about men who _thought_ they'd fallen in love just because they danced with a woman at a wedding. That would be men who are secretly sentimental, by the way, which I am not. I was really acting for the protection of my whole gender here.

            At last the dancing started. I was a good dancer. Never had lessons or anything, but I had a natural sense of rhythm and I wasn't embarrassed to be the only guy on the dance floor. I had to admit Pepper was a little dance-challenged, though. Her dance moves could frankly be a little robotic. But not in that retro "Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto" way. More in an "animatronic figure from a Disneyland ride" way. Hey, it was true. She had the same moves at home, too, so at least I knew it wasn't caused by shyness. Now, to be fair, _if_ the dance was such that we were touching—a slow dance, or at least able to hold hands—she was much better at matching me. But she still wouldn't have been my first choice to go clubbing with.

            I wandered over to the DJ's booth about twenty minutes in. "DJ… Mick Mike?" I read in confusion from his sign.

            " _Mike_ Mike," he corrected, as he was no doubt used to doing. "It's 'Mic' as in 'microphone.' "

            "Okay. You take requests?"

            "Sure, man. What do you want?"

            I had to make sure our song would be played at least _once_. " 'Every Breath you Take.' The original version by the Police, none of that remake c—p."

            He was shaking his head before I even finished. "Sorry, man, I can't play that."

            I stared at him. "What do you mean you _can't_? You want me to call Sting and get his permission or what?"

            DJ Mic Mike was unimpressed by my offer. "No, I mean—I _don't_ play it. At weddings. Sorry."

            "Why the h—l not?"

            The little indie rock brat was starting to get huffy, but then again so was I. "Look, man, I have certain songs I don't play at weddings. It's in the contract. 'The Chicken Dance,' 'Macarena,' 'Good-bye, Earl'…"

            He was not convincing me. "I'm not asking you to play a song with a stupid novelty dance _or_ one about shooting an abusive husband. I just want 'Every Breath You Take.' "

            "Which is a _total_ stalker nutjob love song!"

            DJ Mic Mike and I had a little stand-off for a minute. Then I noticed his prominently-placed tip jar and reached for my wallet. A man of commerce, I could deal with. "Okay, Mikey Mike. What's the price to abandon your principles and give in to the Man?"

            The little snot rolled his eyes. "Um, a thousand bucks. _Cash_."

            I grinned. Obviously he didn't know who he was dealing with here. "Fine," I agreed, pulling out an impressive stack of cash that I stuffed into his inadequate tip jar.

            His jaw dropped satisfyingly. But still he tried to cling to his morals. "Hey, look, man—"

            So I resorted to threats. "Look, you're getting a thousand bucks under the table. Now play the d—n song or I'll have you replaced by an iPod." He indicated his acquiescence. "And don't try to short me, either," I warned him. "I want every second of it!"

            I walked back to our table, where Pepper had already consumed half of her candy from the candy bar. Obviously she was trying to pace herself. The Chinese food takeout boxes we had been given as containers were now clearly marked—'PEPPER' and 'MR. STARK'—and labeled with warnings not to touch. "J---s, Pepper, why didn't you just draw a skull and crossbones on them?" She looked as though this was indeed a good suggestion and began to search for a pen again.

            "And now, by _special request_ ," the DJ announced, with just a touch of sarcasm.

            I grabbed Pepper's hand and pulled her away from the table. "Come on, it's our song!"

            Over the course of the evening DJ Mic Mike and I became good pals—and by 'good pals,' I meant he loathed seeing me pop up by his booth, yet was secretly intrigued to see what song I would come up with. At least that was _my_ interpretation.

            Shortly after completing my dance with Pepper I returned to our digital maestro. "Didn't like that version?" he asked with a bit of snideness.

            "No, it was fine. I have another request." I liked how in this context, the word 'request' really meant 'command.' Of course, I had spent most of my life in that context.

            "Look, man, I'm not playing 'Baby Got Back,' no matter how much cash you have," he declared, immediately defensive.

            "Well, we'll talk about that later in the evening," I deferred. "Right now I want to hear some Queen."

            He looked interested in spite of himself. "Queen, huh? Anything specific?"

            " 'Fat-Bottomed Girls.' " Try to take away my Sir Mix-a-Lot, would he? The DJ rolled his eyes and started to protest. "It's a great song!" I insisted. "Also, 'Don't Stop Me Now' and 'You're My Best Friend,' which by the way is a _great_ wedding song." He had to concede that point. " 'Princes of the Universe' is a personal favorite," I continued, "but I can see how it would be out of place at a wedding." I did have _some_ mercy in me. "But none of that overused stuff like 'Bohemian Rhapsody' or 'We Will Rock You.' "

            "Okay, I'll play some Queen," the DJ agreed.

            "Three songs in the next forty-five minutes," I added, walking away.

            "But—" I turned back to silence him with a look.

            Forty minutes later. Pepper and I were taking a breather while some stupid song about butterflies played and she had just brought back two fresh drinks from the bar. Hers was bright blue. "What the h—l?" I demanded, sipping my Scotch.

            "It's called an electric lemonade," she informed me with some excitement. "It's _very_ pretty."

            "I bet it'll turn your tongue blue." She seemed interested in this idea.

            "So how are you enjoying your first wedding reception?" Rae asked Pepper, leaning in front of Rhodey at the table.

            "Well, I really like the candy," Pepper answered. She had polished off her own share and was about a third of the way through mine.

            "I always think it's nice when the couple write their own vows," Rae continued, a bit moonily, I thought. Rhodey seemed tolerant of her, though, so I avoided trying to commiserate with him. "It lets you see what's really important to them, how their particular relationship works."

            "They did not recite the standard vows I encountered in my research," Pepper agreed, with a frown. She had been somewhat alarmed by this during the ceremony.

            "Well, it's more special when you personalize it," Rae nodded. "It encourages the couple to think about what they most value in each other."

            "Hmm," replied Pepper thoughtfully, which was dangerous.

            Sensing she was making some headway, Rae got a little too ambitious. "Don't you agree, Tony?"

            See, I really wouldn't have said anything, but then she _asked_. "Absolutely," I avowed, and Rae knew she was in trouble. "When the groom promised he would still find the bride sexy even if she hadn't shaved her legs, it just really got me right here." I tapped my chest over my heart while swilling the rest of the Scotch. "Oh, hey, it's 'Fat-Bottomed Girls'! Come on, Pepper." The last thing I saw at the table was Rhodey trying to stifle a chuckle under his wife's glare.

            "Man, I'm not your personal playlist," DJ Mic Mike complained when I went to visit him again.

            "Oh, you'll like this one," I assured him. "Here, I brought you a beer."

            "I don't drink while I'm working."

            "Whatever. 'Honky Tonk Woman.' "

            He nodded slowly. "The Stones, huh? Yeah, I could do that."

            "Also, 'Every Breath You Take' again."

            "No way, man!" the DJ shot back. "I'm definitely _not_ playing it a _second_ time!"

            "Oh, it's been over an hour," I pointed out dismissively. "Here's another grand. Don't forget 'Honky Tonk Woman.' "

            Back at the table Pepper had a fresh Scotch for me, a neon pink drink for her, and no candy. "It's called a three-legged flamingo," she told me.

            "How about that," I replied dryly. "I wonder what that refers to?"

            "The bartender said he didn't know." Just as well, really. I would've had to beat him for making sexual innuendos to Pepper.

            While I was gone intimidating the DJ Rae had switched seats with Rhodey so she could sit right next to Pepper and ply her with seditious talk. "Doesn't Jenny have a beautiful dress?"

            Okay, that was just _low_ , given Pepper's weakness for pretty clothes. And what the h—l message was Rae trying to convey, anyway—that promising to make a lifelong commitment to another person was something Pepper should consider because it meant she could expand her wardrobe? I took promises very seriously—that was why I made very few of them. I wasn't going to say I had never slept with a married woman, because I had, but those marriages were in trouble—or in a state of 'understanding'—long before _I_ found them. I would never have set out to tempt someone into an affair—hence why Rhodey knew telling me his little sister was already married would be an effective deterrent.

            "Yeah, I would _totally_ get married if I could wear a dress like that," I said before I could stop myself.

            "Oh, no, sir," Pepper countered seriously. "Remember, we tried that style before, and your shoulders are too broad for it." She patted my hand consolingly.

            Well, _that_ got the attention of the table, especially when I choked on my drink. While laughing, of course. "Um—cough—right—laugh—that was for Halloween, by the way," I finally sputtered. A rumor that I was a cross-dresser would be pretty d—n awesome, though. The tabloids hadn't tried that one for at least ten years. "Come on, Pepper, it's 'Honky Tonk Woman'!"

 

            "Now what?"

            "You know, you need to work on your people skills," I advised the DJ helpfully. "I gotta be honest and say it's probably that deficiency that's kept you on the wedding and bar mitzvah circuit, instead of spinning tracks in a club with 50 Cent. Here, I brought you another beer." He didn't really seem to appreciate my thoughtfulness. Although, I noticed he had indeed drunk the first beer I'd brought him.

            "What this time," he asked with a sigh of resignation.

            "Well, this one might be a bit of a challenge for you," I warned him. "It's kind of obscure."

            His professional pride was ruffled. "I've got over ten thousand songs here, man—"

            "Yeah, but half of those are Tony Bennett, Usher, and 'Brown-Eyed Girl,' " I shot back. His expression told me I was more or less correct. "The question is, are you cool enough for the other half to contain the Arctic Monkeys?"

            "Arctic Monkeys, huh?" he repeated, suitably impressed. " 'I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor'?"

            "I do, thanks," I replied, unable to resist the pun. "But _are_ you cool enough?"

            He looked a bit sheepish. "I'll have to get it from iTunes," he admitted. "Don't get a lot of requests for it at weddings."

            "You need to work better weddings."

            I went back to the table. "Pepper, next time tell the bartender to use top-shelf," I instructed, knocking back my drink. "This is like Scotch-flavored water. What's _that_?"

            "It's a spunky monkey!" she told me brightly. "It's banana flavored… why are you laughing?"

            "It just sounded funny when you said it," I tried to explain.

            "Spunky monkey?"

            "Stop, seriously," I insisted. "It's very appropriate, though, because the DJ's gonna play the Arctic Monkeys here in a minute."

            Pepper stared at me. "How do you know that?"

            "Well, I told him to."

            "You can tell him what songs to play?" Apparently she hadn't picked up on this in her research.

            "Well _yeah_." Didn't I tell _everyone_ what to do? "You want to hear anything?"

            "Yes."

            I blinked at her. "Hmm, I didn't think you'd actually have any ideas." Pepper didn't really have much of an opinion about music—loud was good, and our song was good, but beyond that it was mostly noise. "What do you want to hear?"

            "I want to hear that song that was on the radio when we were driving here," Pepper decided. "The one about snowballs and strawberry ice cream."

            I knew which one she meant immediately. "That wasn't a _real_ song, Pepper," I tried to tell her. "It was just a commercial jingle."

            "No, it wasn't," she countered stubbornly, drinking her, uh, spunky monkey. "I've heard it before. It was in that movie with the green man and the talking donkey who reminds me of you."

            That was about as close as Pepper would get to calling me an a-s in public, but it wasn't exactly subtle. "Oh, do you mean _Shrek_?" Rae asked helpfully while Rhodey snickered into his hand. "The kids love those movies."

            "That song is just so… _cutesy_ , Pepper," I protested. "Wouldn't you rather hear, I don't know, 'Baby Got Back'?"

            "No." Blink, blink.

            I made a noise of frustration in response.

            "You want me to go request it, Tony?" Rhodey offered, enjoying my discomfort.

            "No, I'll take it like a man," I sighed, standing.

            "Thank you, sir," Pepper said, giving me a smile that made the task a bit less onerous.

            "It's been, like, five minutes, man," DJ Mic Mike complained when I appeared at his booth once again. "I haven't had _time_ to play it!"

            "Actually I've got another one to add," I told him, feeling a bit ridiculous. " 'Accidentally in Love' by Counting Crows. Unless of course you don't have it," I added hopefully.

            "No, I've got that one," he confirmed. "That's been pretty popular since the _Shrek_ movies came out."

            "Well, it's not really _my_ idea," I assured him quickly. "It was a request by the lady."

            "You and your wife have very eclectic tastes," he commented, shaking his head.

            I blinked at him, uncertain what to say in response. Well, obviously, 'she's not my wife, she's my assistant' would've been one option, but for some reason it didn't really occur to me to say it.

            When I returned to the table Rae was trying to talk to Pepper about weddings again. What exactly was the obsession? "Weren't all the flowers beautiful? You know, Jim and I had yellow daisies at our wedding," she was saying. "That's my favorite flower."

            A few years ago Pepper would not have understood that this was a prompt to offer her _own_ opinion about flowers. But she had made considerable progress, under my guidance of course. "I don't really like flowers," she admitted, still working on the spunky monkey. "Except for the roses Mr. Stark gives me on Valentine's Day."

            Rae looked marginally impressed at this. I slouched in my chair and tried to appear disinterested. "Really? That's very nice. What color roses?"

            "Brown," Pepper answered promptly. "They're made of chocolate." And usually gone by the end of the day, no matter how many dozen I left for her. "Oh, but sometimes some of them are red because they're made of red panties folded up into rosebuds."

            "How classy," Rae replied dryly as I failed to maintain a straight face.

            "Come on, it's the Arctic Monkeys!" I announced, pulling Pepper up. "Let's go dance, Mrs. Stark!"

            After the fast song came a slow one and I stayed on the dance floor with Pepper, one arm around her waist, the other hand over hers on my chest. She was pretty adept at the slow-dance.

            "Why did you call me 'Mrs. Stark'?" she asked with curiosity.

            "You remind me of my mother," I quipped. "The DJ thinks we're married, apparently."

            "Oh," she replied. "Well, we _do_ live together."

            "And you tell me what to do."

            Pepper ignored that. "And you haven't danced with anyone but me."

            "And, we don't have sex, so we're _totally_ like a married couple," I added cheekily. "That's a good idea, though. I think I'm going to have you wear a wedding ring so guys will think you're married and not bother you. Or at least, only the complete jerks would bother you then."

            "That's very thoughtful of you, sir," she responded with a lack of sincerity. "But if the newspapers saw it, they would probably think you and I had gotten married in secret somewhere."

            I grinned. "That could be fun."

            "And then whenever you took another woman home they would think you were cheating on me." 

            My face fell. "I hadn't thought of that," I admitted. "I guess we won't do the ring thing after all."

            "That seems wise." Conversation paused for a moment. "I like this song," Pepper commented.

            I started paying attention to it. "The singer's kind of nasally," I judged. "And it seems really… sad."

            "I don't think it's sad," Pepper countered. "I think it's pretty. I've heard it before—it's by Shakira."

            I frowned. "Shakira? I didn't think she had any songs that _didn't_ involve violent hip-swiveling. Not that I'm complaining…"

            "Do you think he'll play our song again?" she asked. "I like that song best."

            "Well, that all depends," I told her. "How much money have you got on you?" Quick cut to me at the table, moments later. "Hey, I need to borrow some cash." This elicited some surprised reactions. "Oh, come on, I'm good for it. How much cash have you got on you, Rhodey?"

            He pulled out his wallet but gave me a suspicious look. "I'm not financing your bar bill, Tony," he warned me.

            "No, no, no," I assured him. It was an open bar, anyway. "It's for the DJ!"

            "The _DJ_?"

            "Yeah. I gotta pay him a thousand bucks whenever I want 'Every Breath You Take' played, and I'm outta cash," I explained matter-of-factly. "Pepper wants to hear it again."

            "It's already played twice," Rhodey realized. "You carry _two thousand dollars_ in cash on you?!"

            "Not _normally_ ," I told him. "But I thought you said it was going to be a cash bar, so I wanted to be prepared."

            Rhodey was shaking his head at me. "Tony, not even _you_ could run up a two thousand dollar bar bill in _one_ night, at a _wedding reception_."

            "Hey, don't dare me, because I'll do it, and I don't even have the two thousand anymore," I warned him. "So I've got three hundred from Pepper, a hundred I had leftover…" I waited expectantly. Rhodey sighed and gave in, along with various other people at the table. They were all friends of his and thus part of my larger circle of acquaintances. "Pepper, remember how much I owe everybody."

            "Yes, sir."

            In triumph I marched back to DJ Mic Mike. He groaned when he saw the wad of cash. "Not again!"

            "Oh, yes, again," I assured him, handing over the money. "Also I want—you might want to write this down—'Church on Sunday' by Green Day, 'I Want You Bad' by the Offspring, and 'No One Else' by Weezer."

            The DJ blinked at me. "Dude, _what_ is your obsession with twisted love songs?"

            "Write them down," I instructed, "before I take over that booth and play Good Charlotte's 'My Bloody Valentine.' " Rolling his eyes, Mic Mike began scribbling the songs on a piece of paper. "Oh, also 'The Good Life' by Weezer," I added. "And don't forget 'Accidentally in Love,' which you haven't played yet. And of course—" I tapped the tip jar.

            "You know, I _do_ have requests from other people," he grumbled.

            "Look at those people," I scoffed, gesturing towards the crowd. "People like that are the reason you need to _have_ a rule against 'The Chicken Dance' in the _first_ place. I have infinitely better taste."

            "And yet you still want me to play 'Baby Got Back,' " he observed dryly.

            "Hey, it's not the song's fault that it's so awesome it gets overplayed," I defended. "But we can compromise. You can delay some of the more objectionable selections for half an hour or so. By then Great-Aunt Tillie will have gone home to watch _Jeopardy_ and feed the cats."

            "Leaving only us hipsters, right?" the DJ guessed with a mocking smirk.

            "Some of us manage to _transcend_ labels," I shot back condescendingly, starting to walk away. I turned back suddenly. "Hey, what was that slow, nasally Shakira song you played a few minutes ago?"

            "It's called 'Underneath Your Clothes,' " he informed me, unimpressed by my lack of knowledge. Well, I couldn't memorize _every_ song on the radio, after all.

            "Hmm. It was not as dirty as I would have thought, given that title," I mused.

       "Is he going to play it again?" Pepper asked when I returned.

            "Of course," I assured her. "What's this?" I indicated the milky-white drink she held.

            "It's a nutcracker!" I blinked at her, unwilling to comment. "Here's your Scotch."

            "And now, ladies and gentlemen!" DJ Mic Mike announced, and I hoped he wasn't going to say something about my requests that he _thought_ would embarrass me, "the bride will throw her bouquet!" I snorted—just the moment I'd been waiting for. "All single ladies to the floor, please!"

            "You're single, Pepper!" Rae pointed out suddenly. "Go on!"

            "What? Wait a minute!" I sputtered. But Rhodey and the others who enjoyed seeing me squirm encouraged her heartily and it didn't seem worth the hassle. "Fine, go on," I told her, with ill grace.

            "What should I do?" she asked in confusion.

            Guess her research hadn't taken her that far. "Just stand at the back of that crowd," I replied, pointing to the gaggle of gigglers on the dance floor, "and if anything comes flying at your face, just bat it away, okay?" I gave a violent little wave to demonstrate.

            "That showed great maturity," Rhodey teased as Pepper joined the throng of allegedly eligible ladies. "No, really, I'm impressed."

            "Shut up."

            A drumroll played to heighten the tension of this moment of destiny for some blushing virgin, or whoever the bride had promised to fling the bouquet at. Rhodey's sister turned her back on the crowd, paused dramatically, then tossed the bouquet of flowers over her head.

            With the force of a linebacker, apparently, as the floral missile sailed in slow motion above the bobbing heads and landed squarely in the distinctly _un_ grasping hands of—

            Pepper.

            Well of course in hindsight that outcome seemed inevitable, because that was just how my life worked. But at the time I was pretty shocked. Basically, my jaw hit the floor, and the table burst into raucous laughter and applause at my expense. Rhodey and Rae were pretty much rolling on the floor.

            Pepper trotted back over with the bouquet. "Look what I caught!" she showed me proudly.

            "Yeah, fantastic."

            "You know what this means!" Rae hinted smugly.

            "What does it mean?" Pepper asked blankly.

            I seized my opportunity. "It means, you get another trip to the candy bar!" Her eyes widened in delight. "Go on. I'll hold this for you." I plucked the bouquet from her hand and chucked it under the table as soon as her back was turned.

            "What was I saying about maturity?" Rhodey snickered. "I take it back. You are like a five-year-old afraid of getting cooties."

            "Oh, trust me, I would _love_ to get Pepper's cooties," I shot back peevishly. Hey, he set that one up. "I am _merely_ trying to avoid deluding her into thinking we'll be starring in a wedding video anytime soon."

            "So I'm guessing you don't want to participate in the garter toss," Rhodey surmised, nodding towards the crowd of males now on the dance floor.

            "No way in h—l," I confirmed, finishing my drink. "I have no desire to join the ball and chain club."

            "Hmm, isn't it tradition that the man who catches the garter gets to dance with the woman who caught the bouquet?" Rae commented, deliberately.

            I set my glass down with a thunk, unaware of that custom and now alarmed by it. I was _so_ easy to bait sometimes. But in my defense, I took a lot of c—p from people (nearly as much as I dished out) and I was pretty good-humored about it most of the time. I mean, if I had felt the need to challenge every person who criticized, mocked, or otherwise tried to push my buttons, I would have had a lot longer criminal record than I already did.

            On the other hand, some things were worth fighting for.

            I will not describe in detail the events surrounding the garter toss. Suffice it to say that I ended up dancing with Pepper, per the ancient, hallowed tradition. And that I probably didn't succeed in my goal of _not_ embarrassing Rhodey.

            Several hours later the reception hall was mostly empty, though technically still open, with the hardcore stragglers drawn to the table where Rhodey and I were holding court. I generously allowed him to be my co-consort because he was far more lucid than I was by that point. Amazingly, I wasn't really drunk, just tired, although I'd been consuming a prodigious number of Scotches. I figured either my tolerance had gotten dangerously high or my liver was about to completely shut down.

            "D—n, I can't even taste this," I complained, knocking back another drink.

            "Maybe you should _stop_ , in that case," Rhodey suggested far too sensibly.

            "Pepper, go get me a whiskey or vodka or something else," I instructed instead, and she slid dutifully off my lap to visit the bartender. He had easily become her friend tonight as much as DJ Mic Mike had mine, although not in that 'I must now have him killed' way.

            "Well, I'm turnin' in," a large black man announced as he passed out table. He was wearing a tux but carried the jacket in one hand—a closer inspection would have revealed he was actually carrying _parts_ of a jacket.

            Several people bid him good night. "See ya, Big J," I added, high-fiving him.

            "See ya, Tony," he replied. "Sorry about the eye."

            "Hey, no problem," I assured him. Between the Armani suit, the frilly garter around my upper arm, and the purple-black bruise forming around my right eye, I felt I looked roguishly disreputable. Which was of course a good thing.

            Pepper returned to my lap. "Here is a whiskey, sir," she said, handing me the glass. I took an experimental sip, then tossed the whole thing down.

            "J---s, is your entire throat numb by this point?" Rhodey asked.

            "Must be," I shrugged, not looking forward to the hangover I would have the next day. (Though in reality it wasn't too bad, as Pepper had been getting my drinks watered down most of the evening. So my complaint about 'Scotch-flavored water' was actually more accurate than I realized at the time.) "What have _you_ got?"

            "It's called a black pepper martini," Pepper replied, seeming pleased to drink something that had her name in it. It didn't happen very often, after all.

            "That sounds like s—t," I opined cheerfully. "Lemme taste. Yeah, that _is_ s—t."

            "It _could_ be sweeter," Pepper agreed thoughtfully. She opened her tiny blue bag of a purse, rummaged around in it, and finally produced a small bottle whose golden, viscous contents she added to the drink.

            "Um, what _is_ that?" asked someone a bit nervously.

            "It's _honey_ ," I answered sharply. "What do you think it is, crack syrup?"

            "You carry honey around with you?" someone else asked.

            I didn't remember Pepper being introduced to these people, so I figured she would just ignore them. " _Yeah_ , she carries honey around with her," I replied on her behalf. "Is that weird?" Wisely no one answered yes. "Lemme taste it now. Wow, now it's _sweet_ s—t."

            "I'm hungry," Pepper declared. She had eaten her second box of candy at least an hour ago, so it was about time for another feeding. "Can we go out to eat?"

            I was so tired I wasn't sure what was going to happen when I tried to stand up, so hitting whatever greasy spoon was still open this late didn't seem like a good idea. "We'll get room service back at the hotel," I promised. "What do you want?"

            "Ham," she answered randomly.

            "Okay," I agreed, stifling a yawn. The only thing I could figure was that I had never stayed at a wedding reception this long—normally I would have been in bed by this point (but not alone).

            "And how are you going to _get_ back to the hotel?" Rhodey questioned sternly.

            "I thought I'd let Pepper drive," I quipped.

            "She's been drinking all evening."

            "Yeah, but she's still sober as a—" I paused. "I was going to say 'judge,' but some of the judges I've known…" I trailed off with a grin.

            "It would be illegal for me to operate a motor vehicle on public thoroughfares in this country," Pepper reminded me.

            "Guess we'll take a cab, then," I decided. "One of these days I'll teach you to drive." Rae shuddered visibly at the thought. I patted Pepper's lower back. "Well, hop up, honey. You want that ham, we better get going."

            "Can we have another dance first?"

            "If I don't pass out the instant I stand up." I didn't, although I wasn't exactly light on my feet. I snapped my fingers once we reached the empty dance floor. "Maestro! One more time, if you will."

            "You're a sick man," Mic Mike diagnosed, cutting Tony Bennett off mid-warble.

            "I'll send you a check," I told him, as I had the previous six times our song was played.

            "Yeah, I'll be waiting," he replied sarcastically, cueing up the Police again. (Wish I could've seen the look on his face when the check for seven thousand dollars arrived a few days later. Hey, I honored my contracts.)

            "So how did you like your first wedding?" I asked Pepper as we swayed to our song.

            She thought it over. "I liked the candy. And dancing with you." This seemed only proper to me. "Everybody looked very happy."

            "Yeah, well, they generally are at weddings," I remarked, trying to swallow another yawn. The cool touch of Pepper's hand on the back of my neck woke me up a little.

            "There were a lot of people, though," she continued with a frown. "I like being at home with you better."

            I grinned. Pepper was an egomaniac's dream come true. "You know, we could set up our _own_ candy bar at home," I suggested.

            She seemed very interested in this idea. "Really?"

            "Yeah. You could get some pretty bowls and jars, and we'll line them up on the dining room table, since we never use that for anything," I went on, "and we'll fill them with candy, and then you can walk down the table and pick out the candy and eat all you want. And… I'll eat salad."

            Pepper smiled at me, which was like laughter from anyone else. "I think that's a good idea."

            "And then I'll get Sting to come and sing for you."

            "Oh, I don't think he'd be as good as you, sir."

            See what I mean? But the thing was, she _meant_ it. Pepper was honest, which was a rare thing in my world. Any given day I could find a dozen people who'd tell me I was fantastic because they thought it would advance their causes, and at least a couple who'd tell me I s—ked because they thought I would appreciate their "fearlessness" and thus advance their causes. But only a tiny, tiny number of the people I knew would actually tell me what they really thought, for good or for bad. It had always been that way, at least since I had become an adult. Maybe you thought I was a jerk—worse probably—but I had to have a strong personality to deal with a world like that. Otherwise I would've spent my whole life getting pushed around by the people who merely wanted something from me. So I had learned to treasure the people who were honest with me. 

            Even if sometimes I had a funny way of showing it.

            "You guys leavin'? We'll walk with you," I said as I saw Rhodey and Rae gathering up. "Come on, Pep."

 

            Coda: So Monday I had to do an interview on CNBC. Yeah. TV. Live.

            "I wish you'd let me put ice on this," Pepper fussed, applying my TV make-up in the green room backstage. "Do you want me to try covering it up?"

            "Do you think it still looks roguishly disreputable?" I asked worriedly, peering at the black eye in the mirror. It had faded a bit since Saturday night but was definitely noticeable. "Or does it just look kind of pathetic?"

            "I don't know, sir. Should I get someone else to ask?"

            I shook my head. "Don't bother. Jason will be running in here any moment to glad-hand me." That was the well-known business correspondent who was interviewing me today. We'd known each other professionally for years and I thought he was reasonably cool. But his assistant needed to work on her poker face. "Did you see how big her eyes got when she first saw me?" I chuckled to Pepper. "The _instant_ she left us here she probably went running off to the control room. 'Tony Stark's here. He's got a black eye.' 'S—t!' "

            "That _is_ how I felt when you got it," Pepper agreed seriously, trying to hand me her color-coded index cards.

            I began pulling off the colored tape flags and rearranging them. "No, Pepper, it's not because they _care_ about my well-being," I pointed out to her.

            "Stop that!" she tried to order me, watching my abuse of the color-coding system with growing horror.

            "They'll be upset because they know the black eye is going to distract people," I continued, holding the mutilated index cards out of reach, "and they're afraid some sordid story of how I acquired it will be breaking any moment."

            "I told you we should have talked to PR this morning," Pepper reminded me peevishly. Having retrieved her precious cards she began hastily correcting her coding system.

            "Where's the fun in _that_?"

            The door to the green room opened and Jason stepped in, disturbingly chiseled and tanned. "Seriously, man, enough with the plastic surgery," I teased him as we greeted.

            He laughed as though I had said something funny and then asked, like he'd just now noticed, "Hey, speaking of that, what happened to your eye, Tony?"

            "I don't know, you tell me," I grinned. "What'd my PR guys say I did?"

            He smiled then, a slightly more genuine look. See, I told you he was _reasonably_ cool. It was just that he was surrounded by as much fakeness as _I_ was—it was easy to get sucked in by it. "Yeah, Natalie made a hotline call to Stark Industries PR," he admitted. "No comment. And possibly, no knowledge, either."

            "Good job!" I congratulated him. "I haven't been into the office yet today. They're probably s------g themselves right now." I looked over my shoulder. "Any messages from PR, Pep?"

            "Yes," she replied coldly, still sore about the tape flags. "As requested, I'm ignoring them."

            Jason shook his head at my blatant disregard for the mental health of my employees. "So come on, what'd you do? Are the police going to arrest you on the air or what?"

            "Oh, don't you wish," I told him pleasantly. "No, nothing like that. I just ran a few field tests this weekend."

            "Unsuccessful, I'm assuming?" he guessed.

            "Only for idiots like me who don't wear safety glasses," I laughed. See what I meant about the poor guy being surrounded by fakers? Well, what could I say—I certainly wasn't going to tell a _journalist_ about my misadventures at Rhodey's family's wedding. They didn't need that kind of publicity.

            A few minutes later we were live, with Pepper's notecards hidden in my lap and Pepper herself off-camera gesturing for me to sit up straighter. Well, the chairs they provided at these things were really uncomfortable.

            "…And I'm here with Tony Stark, head of Stark Industries, the country's largest weapons manufacturer—"

            "Actually I prefer 'brilliant billionaire weapons designer Tony Stark,' " I reminded him cheerfully.

            "Ah yes, how could I forget?" he replied dryly. "Your assistant gave me a note about it." I had to laugh at that, especially when he flashed the index card with Pepper's distinctly proper handwriting outlining my introduction. I liked this guy because he could go with the flow—some of those talking heads were so serious and rigid. "So before we get started with the outlook for this quarter, Tony," he went on casually, "I just have to ask. About the eye. _What_ did you do?"

            "I got it at a wedding," I quipped, watching him try to stay calm. "I was diving for the garter. Because, you know, I really want to be the next to get married."

            He relaxed a little bit as he realized I was 'joking' and we went on with the show, where I managed to sound incredibly intelligent as usual. Meanwhile, Pepper began answering PR's emails with the cover story I gave her about the field testing. A lie, but a lie to protect my friends, and not a lie covering up anything bad, really. So you see that even though Pepper was fundamentally honest, she still told lies. Nothing was ever black and white, was it?

* * *


End file.
